


In Which Grif Feels Through His Stomach

by hotarukun



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotarukun/pseuds/hotarukun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the operation that saved his life and made Simmons a cyborg, Grif lets his teammates know he appreciates it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Grif Feels Through His Stomach

 

Dexter Grif knew he could be kind of an asshole.

  
Okay, more than kind of. He was a grade-A asshole on the best of days. But he had grown up with the knowledge that when someone saved your ass you better let them know that you appreciate it, or else the next time they might not feel so inclined.

  
In fact, that sort of thing really should have been handled much earlier. But in Grif's defense, in the days following the operation, he'd alternated between being in too much pain to feel all that grateful, and being too high on pain killers to feel anything except a vague floaty sensation. And once the physical pain had faded from agony to more of a sharp ache throughout his entire body, there had been a new arm to get used to, and the strange new pattern of pale and tanned skin that covered his body.

  
It wasn't until weeks after the procedure, when all the stitches had been removed and the lines between his and Simmons' skin were nothing but puckered scars that it really dawned on him: His team had Saved. His. Life.

  
Once the thought had occurred to him he couldn't _stop_ thinking about it. Every time he looked in the mirror and saw one of Simmons' green eyes staring back at him he'd think of it. When he was pulling on the gloves that went with his under armor and he pulled one up over his own tan skin and one over pale skin dotted with freckles he'd think of it. Whenever Sarge started yelling for Simmons 2.0 or Donut asked him if he wanted to try some new cream to minimize the scars he'd think of it.

  
Of course, when it really came down to it, he reasoned, it was Simmons who had saved him, not the whole team. Sure, it was Sarge's crazy idea, and he had performed the operation so he did deserve some credit, but Grif wasn't entirely convinced the older man really deserved any credit for what was to him just another of his weird experiments. And all Donut had done was hold his hand, which was a nice enough gesture but mostly just creeped Grif out a little. Still, they had both made some sort of contribution to what was sort of a big deal as far as Grif's continued existence was concerned, so he could at least make a show of gratitude.

  
But it was Simmons who had been forced to give up almost all of his internal organs so that Grif could live, Simmons who had let Sarge make him into a cyborg and never complained that his cybernetic implants hurt when it rained or that his trigger finger sometimes acted of its own accord. It was Simmons who really deserved his thanks.

  
And for some reason that knowledge made Grif's stomach twist unpleasantly every time he saw his fellow soldier. _Maybe_ , he told himself, _it's just because I haven't told him that I appreciate it._

  
So Grif made a plan. He decided to start off easy, get Sarge and Donut out of the way before approaching Simmons. He figured not only would they serve as a sort of practice run, but he would also have plenty of time to chicken out if he changed his mind about the whole thing.

  
But as luck would have it, he’d barely left his room before nearly running into Simmons in the hall. The maroon armored soldier muttered an apology and stepped around him, continuing down the hall. Grif gave a brief thought to his plan, and then considered the alternative of just getting this all out of the way, like ripping off a band aid (which was a particularly bad metaphor in this case, since Grif usually just left his band-aids in place until they fell off in the shower or something.) In the end it was laziness that decided for him – if he didn’t do it now, he’d have to actually put in the effort of finding Simmons later.

  
“Hey, Simmons?”

The red soldier stopped and turned to face him. “Yeah, what is it?”

Grif took a deep, steadying breath before speaking. “I just wanted to say…thank you. For, you know, giving me all your organs and stuff. It saved my life and…well….thanks.”

The silence after he spoke stretched to an uncomfortable length, and Grif was about to just turn and walk away before Simmons replied, one shoulder giving a casual shrug. “Oh..uh, no problem man. I mean, it's not like I had any choice in the matter. Sarge was pretty determined to have his cyborg.”

Emotions weren't really something that they did, but casual dismissal has not been the reaction Grif expected, and rather than loosening the knot in his belly as he'd hoped, it instead transformed into an unpleasant cold sensation that made him feel vaguel nauseous. “Oh…right. Yeah, of course. But, you know. Thanks anyways. “ With those final words Grif turned and walked away. It wasn’t until he’d gotten to the end of the hall that he realized he’d gone the wrong way.

 

Simmons’ less than stellar reaction put Grif off of seeking out the rest of his teammates for what remained of the morning, and it took a long nap in the Warthog and half a pack of Oreos to get him back in the right mind set. _Besides_ , he told himself, _none of the rest of them gave up any organs. This should be way easier._ His stomach still felt a bit leaden, but it was probably just hunger.

Sarge was the easiest, mostly because Sarge never listened to a word he said anyways. It was just a matter of standing the doorway to his workroom and muttering half under his breath, “HeySargeIjustwantedtosaythanksforsavingmylifeokaybye,” and retreating as quickly as possible to avoid the wrench aimed at his head and Sarge’s shout of “Dammit Grif what did I say about coming in here and getting peanut butter on all my tools again?!?!”

Donut he expected to be a little more difficult, given the effeminate man’s propensity for theatrics and overreactions. So when he found the rookie in what passed for a kitchen at red base, sans his armor and sipping a glass of red wine while reading from a back issue of Better Homes and Gardens, Grif braced himself for tears.

Donut spotted Grif hovering in the doorway before the Hawaiian could announce himself. “Hey Grif!” He greeted cheerfully. “Care to join me? I’m planning out my next order of perennials for the garden. Do you prefer red or purple tulips?”

“Uh….yeah, I really don’t care, Donut.” Grif pulled out the chair opposite his teammate and took a seat. “Look, there’s something I want to say to you, and I’d really appreciate it if you could just avoid being…you know….you. For a minute. Okay?”

Donut set the magazine down, giving Grif his full attention. “Well sure thing, you know I’m always willing to role play with you.”

Grif sighed. “Yeah, good enough. Anyways, I just wanted to thank you for helping to save my life. You know, after you left me to be run over by a tank. Even if all you did was hold my hand or whatever, I appreciate the effort.”

_And now for the waterworks…_

“Oh hey, no problem. In fact, I should be thanking you!”

_Wait, what?_

“Wait, what?”

Donut took a sip from his glass before answering. “Well, if you hadn’t gotten so badly injured, Simmons might not have volunteered for Sarge’s weird cyborg idea and he might have decided to use me after all. So really, you guys saved me too!”

“Volunteered?!” Grif exclaimed, incredulously. “What do you mean Simmons volunteered?”

“Oh yeah, Sarge was all set to just let you die, but Simmons made a deal with him. He said he’d go through with the cyborg operation so long as Sarge used his body to save you.”

Grif was grateful for the helmet that hid his expression from Donut, because he was sure he was gaping like an idiot.

“He was super passionate about it, too,” Donut went on. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him talk to Sarge like that before. He actually yelled at him! It was really impressive – hey, where are you going?”

Grif didn’t answer, just continued on his way out of the door, anger burning hot in his gut at the thought of Simmons actually volunteering to go through with this whole stupid thing. He pictured the way Simmons had just shrugged off his thanks, like it was nothing, like it hadn't taken Grif weeks to work up the courage to say something, like what he had done didn't matter at all. Like it was just a thing that happened sometimes. Like he hadn't _chosen_ to put his own life on the line to save Grif. Didn’t he realize how dangerous it could have been? How it all could have gone wrong? What if the surgery hadn’t worked, and Simmons had died? It was one thing when it had been Sarge’s decision, Sarge’s order. Grif knew Simmons would do anything to please Sarge, it was like he had some weird compulsion to please the man. But knowing he’d done it for Grif changed everything.

Grif scoured the base for his maroon suited teammate, and with each place he looked that he didn’t find Simmons, the anger grew and grew until he felt he would explode. But when he finally located the other man – on the roof of the base, keeping watch, which, in hindsight, probably should have been Grif’s first guess – it suddenly left him. He caught sight of the maroon armor and it all just…melted away, leaving him feeling drained. He’d come up here to yell, to tell Simmons how stupid he had been, how he never should have taken the chance that everything would work out, not for Grif.

But he couldn’t say any of that, because seeing Simmons standing there in the sunlight…he understood. He understood exactly what would make the other man take that risk, even if it wasn’t something he was ready to admit to just yet.

So instead of calling him all sorts of stupid, Grif just strode to Simmons’ side and sat with his back to the parapet closest to him.  
“Aren’t you supposed to be patrolling right now?” Simmons asked.

“Patrolling for what? The Blues? They aren’t going to do anything, and I need a nap,” Grif replied. When Simmons just huffed but let him be, Grif smiled inside his helmet.

He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to explain just how much it meant to him that Simmons would voluntarily go through one of Sarge’s crazy experiments for his sake. He wanted to say that if the tables had been turned, he would have done the same. He wanted to tell Simmons how he didn’t really hate it here as much as he pretended to. But that just wouldn’t be them.

So instead he reached out a hand to give Simmons’ leg a light shove and said, “Hey kissass, you’re blocking my sun.”

“What the hell, I was here first! And there’s a whole canyon full of sun. If you want your own, go somewhere else!”

“Yeah, but then I’d have to move.”

And in the bickering that followed, Grif could hear what they were both really trying to say.

_I’m glad you’re alive._


End file.
